Pages

Wednesday, 23 January 2013

Go Maria!

More sports news, but this time of a happier (and sexier) stripe. The lovely Maria Sharapova is – naturally – cruising through the field at the Australian Open, thrashing opponents left, right and centre without a hint of mercy. She has done so brilliantly up to now, in fact, that she has actually broken the record for the fewest games dropped en route to the semi-finals. Of course there are two more matches to win before she gets her hands on the trophy for the second time, with the second of those matches a likely meeting with last year’s winner Victoria Azarenka, but I’m positive she can do it. And she definitely owes Azarenka one.

In honour of Maria’s great run I would like to share a picture that a reader (hi Timmy!) very kindly sent me. All I can say about it is Oh. My.

Oh.

My.

Well, all right. I can think of a few other things to say, actually...

*****

Maria had never looked so beautiful; so statuesque; so incomparably delicious. I yearned with every ounce of my being to touch her; to run my hands over her soft skin, to feel her lips against my own, to let her know with my endless caresses how completely I loved her. And yet I could do nothing but watch her walk away! What unspeakable agony!

“Oh! Maria!” I helplessly cried after her, my gag transforming my words into a pathetic, indecipherable moan. My goddess glanced back over her shoulder at me, a look of disdain on her beautiful face.

“Quit your whining, wretch!” she snapped. “You only have yourself to blame for your position. And you’ll stay there, like the filthy little whore you are, until I decide to unbind you.”

I didn’t mean to whimper in response but I couldn’t help it: my heart ached for Maria and it ached at the thought that I had angered her. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall. What a pitiful sight I made in contrast with my glamorous Mistress. A naked slut, bound and kneeling in disgrace, collared like a pet.

“I’m warning you. Make one more sound and I’ll beat you,” she said.

My tearful look of subjection wordlessly expressed my obedience. Though barely able to move I willed myself to kneel in as humble and inoffensive a manner as I could, my tightly bound wrists and hands resting on my thighs, my chin abjectly lowered against my own chest, my eyes gazing up at Maria as artlessly as a child’s. Maria looked right through me with that icy stare, then turned and carried on toward the stairs.

My heart leapt when, a moment later, she glanced over her shoulder again.

“You’re looking up my skirt, aren’t you?” she cried. “You little pervert! It’s a beating for you when I get back – one you won’t forget for a long time.”

I rather fear we're in for another shriekathon in the final. The shrieker versus the squeaker. In happier news the disgraceful Serena Williams lost her quarter final to the up and coming Sloane Stephens.